


Happy Housewarming

by eeyore9990



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Marking, Possessive Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 04:07:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For her birthday, Thraceadams prompted me with Possessive!Derek.  This is the result.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Housewarming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thraceadams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thraceadams/gifts).



> Happy birthday, bb! Hope you enjoy. Muuuah!

"Cannonball!!" Stiles shouts before jumping into the pool at Derek's new house, creating the most ineffective splash in the history of splashes. Ineffective but for the fact that he managed to wet the burning end of Isaac's cigarette and...

Derek side-eyes Stiles, who's grinning like a self-satisfied little prick. He's never made any effort to disguise his distaste for Isaac's newly acquired habit. If Derek didn't know first-hand how often Stiles tripped over thin air, he'd think Stiles had planned that.

He's about to open his mouth and say something to that effect when Stiles paddles to the edge of the pool, sets his palms on the concrete, and lifts himself out of the water. And then every thought just...goes away. 

The new trunks Stiles bought just for this occasion—bearing the markings of Captain America's shield in a ridiculously unsubtle target pattern that ends in a white star over Stiles' crotch—have sunk low in the front, showing where the thin line of Stiles' treasure trail thickens into... Derek sucks in a breath and drags his gaze lower, trying to burn that wildly inappropriate image from his mind. But instead he sees something that breaks him.

It's nothing. It _should be_ nothing, and likely would be nothing on anyone else, but Derek had never been able to stand unaffected in Stiles' presence. Hatred and anger and pain had slowly bled to trust and affection and _need_ sometime over the last two years. No amount of self-loathing had kept Derek from wanting. Just _wanting_.

But he'd restrained himself, kept those desires under heavy lockdown because... Because there's a part of him that dreams of having Stiles, of taking and claiming and _having_ , and then looking at Stiles and realizing a monster is staring back. A monster wearing _PaigeKateJennifer_ 's face. A monster he's made, he's unleashed just because he's tried to live again. Love again.

He'll deny himself anything if it means never seeing Stiles' face twisted up in madness. Or worse, pale and still in death. 

But this? It's just...too much. 

With water still running off his skin, Stiles hitches up his shorts, causing the material plastered to his thighs to ride up, showing a blurred tan line and the pale _white_ skin above it.

Derek can't remember the last time he breathed. Can't recall blinking. Can't actually _think_ with his emotional control so thoroughly shattered. 

He lunges toward Stiles, and when Isaac unwittingly steps in his path, bares his fangs and snarls. He's there, dropping to his knees, tugging the material back down, smoothing it over the crinkly hair covering Stiles' white thighs. The edge of the tan line is a do-not-cross warning emblazoned like a tattoo commissioned by Derek, written into Stiles' skin so all others will know. 

Taken. Claimed. _Mine._

He growls the last part out loud and doesn't even realize.

"Uh, dude?" 

He ignores Stiles' voice, snarls again at Scott when he moves nearer— _bad wrong no_ Alpha!—whines with conflicting urges. In the background, above the buzzing in his head, he dimly hears when Scott ushers the newly arrived Sheriff back into the house with a high pitched offer of beer.

It's easy to ignore all his other senses, though, when his hands are full of Stiles, when he smells the humid scent of arousal with every stroke of his palms. He tunes out the sound of the others, doesn't care about the slap of multiple pairs of wet feet on concrete, is mindless to Cora's throaty laughter and the rushing sound of the glass door as it slides closed behind the pack.

"Derek?" There's a lust-rough tone under the confusion in Stiles' voice.

Derek presses his face into the groove created by Stiles' jutting hipbone and his half-hard dick. As he does, he angles his face slightly, drags his chin over Stiles' dick through the thin, wet material of his shorts. Catches the red rush of lust as it blooms in Stiles' cheeks, blotchy against his pale skin.

Derek's still too...overwhelmed...for words. Knows any attempt at human speech will end in growls and whines, so he just makes a huffing sound. And if it blows warm air over Stiles' dick and causes his wet lashes to flare with that wide, faux-innocence, all the better.

"Holy shit," Stiles whispers, his throat clicking as he swallows roughly. "You're all...wolfed out. I should not find that so hot, not when your teeth are that close to my junk."

And Derek hears _that_ , as well as the unspoken challenge. The very likely unimagined challenge, to be honest. But he draws his lips back into a mockery of a smile anyway, shows off his teeth, parts them just to lean forward, tilt his head, and frame Stiles' dick with them. Proves how fine his control is, how _safe_ Stiles will always be with him.

Stiles makes a low sound and his stomach contracts, the lean, defined muscles in his abdomen bunching. "Okay, okay," he whispers, his fingers threading in Derek's damp hair, tugging on it. "I need...I need to know you're with me. I need to know you're completely present right now, dude, because otherwise I'm going to assume someone spiked the punch. Or worked some fucked up wish-fulfillment magic. And then I'll have to spend the rest of the day doing shitty research instead of other things. But not before I fucking cry, because oh my god, if this isn't real, of you're not you, and someone gave me this just to yank it away? Yeah, I'm gonna shed fucking tears. And blood. My tears, their blood, because that's just not—" Stiles cuts himself off abruptly, shudders. "I can't lose you, dude. I can't watch you fade out of my life because someone got all up close and personal in my fantasies. So, please. Say something."

The acrid aroma of anxiety threaded through the current of Stiles' words brings Derek fully back to himself. He considers, briefly, lying. Letting Stiles believe this is anything other than what it really is, because...he's afraid. But so is Stiles and Derek will do anything to quell that shiver of panic that's affecting Stiles' heartbeat.

With some difficulty, he reins in the secondary beta characteristics, lets his teeth retract and eyes dull to their human color. "I'm here," he says.

"Yeah? Any idea, what...uh, what that was?" Stiles' fingers slip from his hair, and Derek whines high in his throat, too high for human ears to hear.

"I..." Derek lowers his gaze, trains his focus on where his fingers are still idly smoothing over the leg of Stiles' shorts. "I couldn't let them see." And he shrugs, because it's really that simple.

"Who? See what?"

"Them." He shrugs again. 

Stiles sucks a considering breath through his teeth, hand dropping to Derek's shoulder and rubbing. "The pack?" 

Giving a noncommittal hum, Derek mutters, "Anyone. Couldn't let them see you. Like this."

Stiles takes a step back, looks down, then pins Derek with another of those innocent, confused gazes that sends conflicting signals through Derek. "Like...what? In shorts?" His shoulders hunch. "They've seen me like this before. So have you. Hell, half of them have seen me naked in the locker room."

Derek's eyes flash as he growls. He can _feel_ himself slipping again. Feel the need to stake his claim rise up in him. "No!" He's on his feet in an instant, advancing on Stiles, who doesn't have the sense to run.

"Yep. Too late for that particular train. It rolled away in seventh grade communal showers." But he's grinning now, the anxiety and confusion melting away to be replaced by satisfied happiness. "Dude," he says, taking that last step, pressing his damp body into Derek's. "If this is going to be a thing? You have to know I'm all on board, okay? But try to dial it back for the afternoon. Let the pack and the parental units—who are probably freaking the fuck out right now—warm your house for now. Later, when everyone leaves? We'll warm your big new bed."

Derek burrows his face in Stiles' throat, letting out a satisfied snuffle at the promise implied in Stiles' words. "One condition," he mutters.

"Mmm?" Stiles shivers, the bloom of lust thick in the air again.

"Let me mark you before the others come back. I...need them to know." Derek's scruff rasps against Stiles' skin as he speaks.

"Hnngh. 'Kay. 'S totally yes. Fine, I mean, oh god, please bite me." The words end in a flurry of rushed syllables, Stiles' need transferring itself to Derek as his fingers sink into the sun-warmed flesh of Derek's back.

Derek pulls back, considers the reddened skin of Stiles' neck and instead presses his mouth to Stiles. It's rough and long, needy and biting. When he pulls back, Stiles looks _wrecked_ , his lips wet and red, nearly bruised. Swollen. Derek chuffs at the sight.

 _Then_ he tucks his face just under Stiles' ear and behind his jaw, sets his teeth to the skin there and _sucks_ until the blood is so close to the surface that it's a tease. He can smell it, right under the skin, the heady scent almost thick enough to taste. 

As he's satisfying his more primal instincts, he feels Stiles' hips hitching against his and he moves, slotting his thigh between Stiles' to give him something to grind against. 

Breathless repetitions of his name fall between them in sighs and moans, even as Derek licks long strokes of his tongue over the deep bruise he's left in Stiles' skin. Moving his lips up, he whispers into Stiles ear, "Come for me," and can't hold back the low growl of satisfaction that rumbles out of him when Stiles _does._

When Stiles marks him as surely as he marked Stiles. 

Stiles is slumped against him, boneless with release, when he starts laughing breathlessly. "Happy fucking house warming to _me_!" he says and weakly fist-pumps the air.

"Seriously, guys?" Scott whines at them through the open kitchen window.

"We are never hearing the end of this," Stiles says, still laughing, his arms tightening around Derek.

Derek shrugs and takes one last taste of his mark. Happy fucking housewarming, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> So, Daniel Sharman seems to always have a cig in his hand, which has fed my head canon that Isaac picks up smoking after S3a. Stiles can't see that cig in his hand without having horrible flashbacks to the cancer ward, but since that's something he _does not talk about_ , he directs that anxious displeasure into passive aggressively dropping pictures of tar-blackened lungs into Isaac's lap or signing him up for a ucanquit2.org account.


End file.
